Tag Archive: flash fiction

Severed head

His head was severed from his body and he felt the agony of that, but he was still alive. His head rolled down the enlarged gullet of the Mummy-thing. Its throat was lined with a sticky red shiny liquid that burnt on contact. Already one of his eyes had been burnt out and he could barely see out of the other one. As he was squeezed downwards he heard a gurgling churning noise which grew louder as he rounded each of the many corners of the foul monstrous gut.

At each push his head was turned in a different direction so he couldn’t always see where he was going. He tried  to bite the side of the gut to stop himself going forward. It tasted foul but the muscular motions were far too strong and he couldn’t hold on.

For a moment he was stuck on what seemed like a fold in the gut which was contracting and pushing him slowly forward towards a small opening.

By coincidence he was turned to face his fate, right at the very edge of the precipice.  Below him was a boiling vat of liquid which must be the stomach of this creature. As the muscles gathered themselves ready to contract he had one last stream of

“…he’ll get by without his rabbit pie…”

running through his mind before his head was ejected like a cork from a bottle out and down into the foul-smelling cauldron below. He registered the searing pain of the stomach acid briefly before his life finally flickered out and his head melted to join the morass.

Extract from my NANOWRIMO work in progress

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Exquisite sample of urine produced after a lon...
Image via Wikipedia

She thought it would be rare, maybe even before she died, which frankly wouldn’t be too long. It was, on the face of it, just another old-lady painting. She’d seen them lined up by the seafront with their easels and new packs of watercolours many years before she retired and followed suit. This was different though, this was a slight variation on the water colour theme. She’d collected her husbands urine for the last 3 years and mixed it with a whole variety of local delicacies, dog turds, vomit collected outside the pub on a Sunday morning, a big jar of her own spit she’d kept specially, and of course that pigs blood she’d got from the butchers.

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Lone Cloud
Image by craigmdennis via Flickr

In the sky he could see his target. The fat fluffy cloud to the left, in fact, at that moment it was the only cloud in the sky. He wanted to reach the cloud quickly before it changed shape. He couldn’t believe it wouldn’t be as solid and comfortable and armchair-like as it appeared from the ground.

He stood up and stared at it some more before simply lifting from the ground, slowly at first and straight up, head first. He stopped at a few feet and came straight back down. He couldn’t work out how to change direction and landing was still a huge problem; last time he’d sprained his ankle and had to ring his Dad to pick him up, making some excuse about being attacked.

‘Who by, do you know them? You do don’t you I can tell?’

‘No Dad, I don’t know them, I’ve never seen them before.’

‘What did they take?’

‘Nothing, a police car drove by and they ran away.’

He’d not flown since. If only he had someone he could talk to about it, someone who could teach him. He had to keep it all to himself but he was dying to tell Harry, his best friend. Harry loved science fiction and superheroes. He’d know what to do. If he found out though Jack knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it to himself, no way.

Imagine if people found out, what would happen to him. He’d probably be hounded out of town or burnt for being a witch or his house would be surrounded by cameras and paparazzi and his Dad would be really cross and he would stop his pocket money.

Bu then, surely if he could fly, properly, once he’d got the hang of it and could land and change direction and swoop and all that, then it wouldn’t matter would it? If they came after him he’d just fly away. If his Dad stopped his pocket money he’d fly into the bank and steal some money and they wouldn’t be able to stop him.

But it wouldn’t end well. He imagined flying round and round being chased and shot at by helicopters and RAF jets and ground to air missiles and the whole of the army would be after him and he’d be hit high above the city and fall to the ground like a stone.

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Where did I put those parents?

Family Room BEFORE
Image by Mandajuice via Flickr

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand so much as that he just couldn’t think about it. Whenever he tried his mind became either completely blank or a mass of noise and scribble and chaos. Either way, the whole subject of housework was always problematic for him. Not that he expected anyone else to do it, well maybe he wouldn’t have minded, to be honest, but as he’d been on his own since hiding his parents, he had no one else who could do it. Theoretically, he could have hired someone but that would have meant earning some money and he hadn’t really worked that out yet either.

His parents’ money was running out fast, unless they had more hidden away somewhere, but if they did he couldn’t think of a way to find it. Asking them was out of the question of course as he’d forgotten where he’d hidden them. All he knew was that he’d hidden them ‘somewhere safe’, that old chestnut.

He’d tried the obvious places, behind the sofa, under the bed, in the shed, in the garage, in the kitchen drawer. He tried places that weren’t at all obvious, like the bathroom cabinet, his pencil case, his jacket pocket, the sugar bowl, the hamster cage and his old shoes under the bed.

All of this had got him nowhere. It had been 9 months now since he’d hidden them. He was a little bit worried about them, obviously, but mainly, he was worried about himself. How was he going to pay the mortgage when the cash ran out?  How was he going to get the house clean, get himself clean, his clothes washed? How was he going to clean up his act so that he could invite someone round or have a chance of meeting someone? He had no clue.

Although his parents were miniature parents, it didn’t mean he relied on them any less. He said to himself that he’d hidden them but in reality they were perfectly able to unhide themselves and find him, they were just choosing not to.

They were letting him use his initiative, something they’d banged on about for years. They may have been miniature but as far as he could tell they seemed to be just as big a pain in the arse as normal sized parents.

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There was this little guy, with a huge left hand. Most of his life he’d made every effort to keep it hidden. Oversized left pockets in all his trousers played a significant role.

He was actually left handed so it led to considerable difficulties. At school or in any public place he used his right hand, so his writing was appalling and he had to avoid any kind of manual work, like carpentry for fear of injuring himself.

His parents helped him to hide, supplying regular notes and excuses on demand. His Dad had a giant left ear and his Mum a tiny left thumb, so they knew what he was going through.

When he was 25 he left home and moved into his own little flat. That day, he decided to come out. He waved that hand around like a huge shovel wherever he went. He always wrote with it in public and he discovered that if he ever got any backchat or abuse from the neighbourhood kids, he could muster an almighty cuff round the ear.

Within a year he had his first girlfriend, an enormous breasted woman with buttocks the size of beach balls. They lived a happy life together.

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Raw (unrefined, unbleached) sugar, bought at t...
Image via Wikipedia

The town of Gallumptia, Idaho, was in many ways an idyllic and peaceful town. The population was only two thousand and there was plenty of room for everyone. Although the  houses varied, no one really had it bad. The Mayor, of course had he grandest house, with more than 100 acres of land, mostly forest, overlooking the river Gallump. The bank manager too had a massive house, three floors and 22 bedrooms and a lake as big as a small sea. No one minded, there was little jealously in Gallumptia because even the lowliest of townspeople, and lets be honest, Jack Hardacre was definitely the lowest, with his limp, his dimwittedness and his unusual shaped head, even Jack  had it pretty good.

He had a modest house with a modest garden and a substantial orchard where he grew the most delicious apples. Even though he was a bit unsightly, the good townspeople of Gallumptia frequently visited him, especially around September time when the apples started to ripen.

He didn’t mind that they only loved him for his apples, better than not having any attention was how he thought about it. He changed his mind though the year he had a bad crop, hardly anything edible and once word got round the stream of visitors almost immediately turned to a dribble and within a week, no one came at all.

He thought he wouldn’t mind but he was incredibly hurt by this and vowed to get his revenge on the fickle folk of Gallumptia.

Gallumptia, though beautiful, was remote. The nearest town was two hundred and fifty miles away and only the mayor and the bank manager had cars. They’d become very good at self sufficiency and hardly needed anything from anywhere. The exception to this was sugar. They all had a sweet tooth, they all loved their desserts and biscuits and tea with 3 sugars and luckily they had 6 dentists in the town so it wasn’t really a problem.  People were happy, mostly quite fat, but happy anyway, apart that was from Jack Hardacre.

He felt that he needed to share his unhappiness around a bit and come November after seething for a few weeks about his lack of apple inspired visitors, he hatched a plan. Took him a bit longer than most, what with his dimwittedness and all, but in the end the plan was simple and effective.

That night he stole the petrol tanker from Hank Jackson’s yard. He knew it was full because Hank always got back late after filling up and didn’t set off on his rounds until early Tuesday mornings, even dim old Jack knew this. It was small town, everyone knew everyone’s business.

He drove straight to the sugar tank and proceeded to pump a load of petrol in the top, ruining all the sugar.

He drove back to Hank’s, left the tanker, walked home and slept a contented sleep for the first time in weeks.

The mayor got the first call, he called the grocer and the bakers and the whole town soon knew what had happened. That night there was a crisis meeting. People shouted and screamed at the mayor demanding that he come up with a plan. Most of them had only a few days of sugar left…

To be continued

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Her fat hand

Her fat hand had landed in front of him on the pavement. The index finger seemed to be pointing directly at him. It hadn’t been his fault; it wasn’t my fault he felt himself saying in his head, rehearsing what he would say to her. But of course he wouldn’t be saying anything to her ever again. The hand was all that was left. He grabbed it quickly, looking around, hoping no one saw. He needn’t have worried , the smoke and dust obscured all but a few feet around him. It was very quiet and nothing moved. He heard the first scream, behind him. He turned towards it standing up and placing the hand in his bag, zipping it up.

The scream was getting louder now and other noises were emerging: a faint siren, a man shouting Helen over and over. The screaming woman was the loudest; it drew him to her. He saw that she only had one leg and from the stump of her missing leg a steady stream of blood was gushing.

He took off his jacket and tore it into long strips, bent down and tied it on the remaining stump of upper thigh as tightly as he could. The woman continued to scream throughout, no actual words just a wailing moan, looking upwards and occasionally looking around and at him.

Once he had tied off her leg he stood up and walked away; away from the noise, the dust, the blood and guts covering the road and pavement. His feet sloshed through it and he almost tripped on the remains of an old woman’s head as he reached the outer edge of the chaos.

The sirens were louder now and from several directions. He slipped through the crowd of gathering onlookers and walked away as fast as he could.


Debunk that

How exactly do you do that?

It was a question he was asked a lot but he never answered it.

He would distract them, or move on to the next person, or leave in a rush, with a swish of his cape and a raised eyebrow.

This was the norm in his profession- keep it in house, maintain the mystique. They don’t quite believe it’s really magic, but maybe, just maybe…

It was a pact between magician and thrill seeker – don’t look too close, don’to probe too much – they get the thrill, the magician maintains his semi-authentic status; everyone’s happy.

That wasn’t his reason though. He had no idea how he did it. With his colleagues, of course, it was all an elaborate hoax, sleight of hand, tricking the eye with diversions and suggestions. He was impressed with their skills, but it had nothing to do with his act.

He just found he could do things like this, one morning. It was after the storm six months ago. He’d been out in the garden trying desperately to get his washing off the line before it was soaked. He was running from the back of the garden to the house, when the lighting bolt struck him in the back of the head. He woke up face down in the mud with a slight headache and an enormous singe mark down the middle of his thick hair.

Since that day he’d been able to perform real magic. He could make things disappear, he could transport things and people over quite considerable distances and he could make something become another thing (hadn’t tried that with people yet, felt a bit risky, but he turned water into wine quite frequently rather than drive down to the off-licence.)

He only started the shows two months ago. It wasn’t the money so much; he could create that out of thin air whenever he wanted to, for him it was the thrill of confounding the sceptics, especially the smart-arsed ones who thought they knew how it was all done, and who delighted in telling the world.

He recognised this little know-it-all in front of him now, for instance. He had his own TV programme , based on debunking and humiliating what he called con-artists.  A lot of the magicians that he’d loved to watch as a child had been publicly humiliated by this smug-faced little shit.

So, he’d taken his cheap watch and turned it into a Rolex. No big deal. Obviously he didn’t believe it and was expecting some kind of switch to take place. Actually it was now a genuine Rolex. It seemed fair enough to give him a small gift to help him cope with the trauma which was just around the corner.

He had a much bigger surprise waiting for him when he went to the toilet.  In place of the traditional male genitalia he now had two chestnuts and a small cocktail sausage between his legs.

Debunk that Weiner boy!

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I want to go to this imaginary place because its the reason I love post-apocalyptic, armageddon-style films, despite the recent glut.

Notwithstanding the obvious hideousness going on, death, disease, pain, desperation, loss, misery etc etc; there’s a sense that I am alive (being the main character in the film) and I am lucky and I can do whatever I want: raid the shops, drink myself bandy, drive aRolls Royce, tattoo my face and run naked through the streets (watching out for the lions and vampires and zombies obviously).

I can make up my own rules, gather a huge arsenal of weapons, invite people I like to join me and kill people who disagree or look at me funny.

I think it’ll be a great place to live.

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A decorated birthday cake
Image via Wikipedia

Arms like tree trunks and a head the size of a boulder. His fantasy defender was strong and effective but kind of hideous looking. He didn’t really think it would come true when he wished on the birthday cake, but he closed his eyes like his weird auntie told him and this is what he wished for. Obvioulsy he had to keep it hidden and the shed was about the only place he could think of. Trouble was its head was too wide for the door.

He woke up the morning after his birthday and saw it: the enormous craggy head resting at the foot of his bed, tiny eyes staring straight at him.

After screaming like a girl and hiding under the covers for a while he realised what it was.

It didn’t talk but it seemed to understand what he said and followed instructions. After failing to hide it in the shed he told it to wait in the woods for him until tomorrow morning.

He would collect it on his way to school and annihilate anyone who gave him a second look. Freddie Jenkins was obviously the first on the hit list but now that he had the power, he realised there were quite a few others that he wanted to hurt.

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